


Sleepless

by Idhreneth



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-02
Updated: 2013-03-02
Packaged: 2017-12-04 01:13:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/704777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idhreneth/pseuds/Idhreneth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire does not let Enjolras see him cry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleepless

Grantaire had not slept at all.

It was the middle of the night. Enjolras was breathing softly, almost angelically, next to him - but not too close. Enjolras did not allow Grantaire to touch him after any of their sexual escapades. He tried to put as much distance between them; almost as soon as they both came, Enjolras would practically leap away from Grantaire.

And it broke Grantaire's heart.

Enjolras was on his side, turned away from Grantaire. He slept soundly for one whose mind was always at work, planning every minute detail of the revolution. A certain calmness fell about his face when he slept, one that had no hope of making an appearance when he was awake. Grantaire hated to say it, but he preferred a sleeping Enjolras. He was almost childlike and innocent when he slept, a different kind of beauty that made Grantaire's heart ache.

He was glad he could not see Enjolras' face now. Grantaire was feeling strangely emotional. He was not nearly drunk enough at the moment.

Enjolras would never love him, and he knew it. He was just a distraction, just there to provide release. Enjolras did not waste time developing relationships when he could be focusing on the revolution. Patria was his only love.

Not to say that he did not care about his friends, but it was difficult, if not impossible, for him to show that.

And yet, Grantaire loved him.

Grantaire did not care about the revolution. What did he care if a bunch of students went out and killed themselves without making the smallest difference? The answer was, simply, that Enjolras was there. And if anyone could lead them away from death and to victory, Enjolras would.

Yet, Enjolras worried. He was afraid that this might not be the right thing, that he was marching his friends to their deaths, that their names would never be remembered. His face changed from a mask of confidence to preoccupation whenever he thought no one was looking.

Grantaire was looking. He always was. He wanted so badly to tell Enjolras why he was even there, because he knew Enjolras looked down on him for his uncaring attitude. But he also knew that Enjolras would brush off anything he would say on the matter as the ramblings of a drunk man.

Grantaire looked over at the back of Enjolras' head, the urge to stroke those blonde curls flooding every inch of his being. He resisted the urge. He was lucky that Enjolras let him stay in his bed, and he did not want to jeopardize that.

Sitting up, Grantaire felt more mournful than he had in a while; probably because he had been drinking more and more lately. He rested his face in his hands and willed himself not to cry.

He made the mistake of looking over at Enjolras. A peaceful look was settled on his features; for once, his eyebrows were not lowered, his lips not pursed. Grantaire wanted to kiss those lips, but Enjolras would never allow it.

Grantaire did not find a great many things beautiful. But his Apollo was beautiful.

Hot tears were spilling down his cheeks, but Grantaire did not realize it until he tasted them on his lips. Grantaire quickly wiped them away, but more spilled over, faster and faster, until Grantaire was sobbing as quietly as he could manage. Grantaire did not cry often; that is what the alcohol was for, to dull the pain. He clenched his teeth around the sheets, pulling at his curls in anguish. He was almost appalled at the way he was acting, but he was too miserable to care.

Enjolras slept on.

Grantaire wanted Enjolras to wake up, to embrace him, to ask him what was wrong but to not expect an answer, just let Grantaire cry on his shoulder. Grantaire wanted Enjolras to hold his hand and tell him that everything was going to be fine.

But when had anyone cared what Grantaire wanted?

Grantaire laid back down, trying to muffle his choked sobs by burying his face in the pillow. Enjolras was oblivious. Would he even care, if he knew of the pain, the bitterness, that was erupting inside the man beside him? Probably not, Grantaire thought despairingly. In that case, he was thankful that Enjolras could not see him cry, and never would.

***

Grantaire must have cried himself to sleep, for when he awoke in the midmorning, dried tears coated his unshaven cheeks. Enjolras was fully clothed, writing at his desk. Grantaire forced himself to sit up.

Enjolras heard this, but did not turn around. "Had a good night?" he asked politely.

"Yes, fine," Grantaire lied.


End file.
